There is so much going on right now, it's getting hard to keep track of things. We're on the verge of a Primary election prior to the Mid-term elections, and things keep happening, mostly bad things, and Obama sits in the White House thinking, "It's cool. I've got this." He goes out, makes a passionate speech, and nothing happens. In the meantime, people are dying (in the VA medical system), our foreign policy is so haphazardly done that we've become the joke of the world, and the National Debt continues to spiral out of control due to potentially criminal spending sprees that have failed to end a recession. Plus, we're now finding out all those "minor details" that Nancy Pelosi said we could read about after passing the Affordable Care Act, and are discovering that the whole thing is "a house of cards" that is hinged on Gen-X'ers who can't afford to pay for the expensive coverage, even if they can negotiate the poorly designed website.
Each time some new, totally irresponsible thing happens, Obama makes a speech. That's his answer to everything. The community organizer has rallied and inspired the troops, so he can take off, play golf, and spend another 50-60,000 taxpayer dollars, and then sit back and think that "It's good to be the King." Personally, I can't wait for 2016, when we choose someone else to do his job. It'll be the first time anyone's done it in eight years.
I will say this, I have been very fortunate, in my lifetime, to have been a recipient of Military Medicine for most of my life. I have records a David Grant (Travis AFB) Medical Center that go back to 1965, and have been treated at Balboa Naval Hospital, Trippler Army Hospital, Oak Knoll Medical Center, and Mare Island Naval Hospital prior to that. Heck, I was born in Bremerton Naval Hospital, so I've had a great deal of my life covered by Military Medicine. I consider it a blessing to have had access to the system for so long.
Yes, I've heard the horror stories. People getting the wrong surgeries, records mix-ups, and on, and on, and on... I've never experienced anything near that incompetent, although I have had a run-in (or two...) with Navy Nurses, but nothing so dramatic as people will tell you. I've had nothing but good experiences for almost 63 years with the Military Medical care, but the best of them all is David Grant (Travis AFB) Medical Center. As I said, I've got records that go back almost 50 years there, and it's one of the reasons I chose to come back to the area when I retired from the Navy.
The hospital was set up as an EVAC Hospital, when I first started going to DGMC, in fact, it wasn't even called David Grant at that time. It was set up on a knoll on the base that backed up to a taxiway where wounded soldiers from Vietnam would be treated, and released (or reassigned). Soldiers would come from Saigon to Honolulu, and get additional treatment before moving the wounded state-side, at Travis. Unfortunately, Travis was also on the itinerary for most of the thousands of soldiers killed in Vietnam, and the base allowed people to watch as the caskets were unloaded, and taken to a warehouse to await further transportation. People had to be respectful, but that never seemed to be a problem, as the sight is quite solemn in itself. When you think that each flag draped box is a person, someone's son, or husband, or brother... I went once, after a high school friend was killed, and couldn't stop myself from crying.
At one time, I had the labyrinth of the hospital all figured out. I could find any "-ologist" in the building. Then they moved to a new building...
I thought the old building was confusing... The new building was built weird, for one, as the first floor on the North side of the building is the basement on the South side. The hospital had four floors on the North, and three on the south. Add to the fact that they are continually changing the building as they update clinics, and incorporate new treatment facilities. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining (really), everything they do seems to make things better for the patients, but it's tough not knowing if you're going to the right place because of some changes being made. Hey, if that's all I have to gripe about, it can't be all bad.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Friday, March 14, 2014
Something to Think About
In this morning's issue of the local newspaper was an article about some people who had "graduated" from a local program designed to get them "back on their feet," and able to take care of their families. I was surprised at how I felt as they expressed their thanks to God, and talked of their desire to "get it right" this time. I guess I thought, a bit, about my own conversion to Christianity, which has been the best thing to ever happen in my life, and felt a connection with a group of people I'd not known about until I read the newspaper this morning.
I tried to look back at the time when I practiced Secular Humanism, and it was hard. It's been 41 years since I began a journey to convert to Latter-day Saint Christianity, and accepted the fact that there was something guiding all things. Trust me, I have gone through a lot in that time; I didn't always comply with the LDS guidelines; and I tried (many times) to give up on religion, but something always kept me from straying too far. Back about ten years ago, I finally had that "moment of clarity," as AA calls it, and I realized that a forgiveness of my sins (of which there were many) began when I start to forgive myself. I was fortunate, in this moment, to know that I had been forgiven for my sins the first time I asked, and that my Heavenly Father was, frankly, rather tired of hearing me drag them out time and time again. Past was past, and it was time to get on with my life.
I've always had empathy for Victor Hugo's main character in Les Miserables, Jean Valjean. I know what it's like to have your past come back to haunt you, and to feel like someone was trying to make that past public. I had things, some of them more embarrassing than sinful, and I would talk about them, if required, but I didn't like to talk of those things. It always seemed that I had to talk about them; someone had to know. Then, I had my moment, and none of it mattered any more. I was "square" with my Heavenly Father, and I was even able to see the humor in some of my more embarrassing moments, and actually laugh about them.
For those of you who want to hang onto your denials of man's "divine nature," I say knock yourself out, just allow me the opportunity to believe as I wish to believe. One of the reasons Christian converts try to go out and teach their friends is because we've held your beliefs, we know that there is nothing to hope for with those beliefs, we want you to know what life is like when hope is restored in your life.
Without hope, life is hard. Life is one dreary day after another. Is that what life is about? Not for me, anyway.
I tried to look back at the time when I practiced Secular Humanism, and it was hard. It's been 41 years since I began a journey to convert to Latter-day Saint Christianity, and accepted the fact that there was something guiding all things. Trust me, I have gone through a lot in that time; I didn't always comply with the LDS guidelines; and I tried (many times) to give up on religion, but something always kept me from straying too far. Back about ten years ago, I finally had that "moment of clarity," as AA calls it, and I realized that a forgiveness of my sins (of which there were many) began when I start to forgive myself. I was fortunate, in this moment, to know that I had been forgiven for my sins the first time I asked, and that my Heavenly Father was, frankly, rather tired of hearing me drag them out time and time again. Past was past, and it was time to get on with my life.
I've always had empathy for Victor Hugo's main character in Les Miserables, Jean Valjean. I know what it's like to have your past come back to haunt you, and to feel like someone was trying to make that past public. I had things, some of them more embarrassing than sinful, and I would talk about them, if required, but I didn't like to talk of those things. It always seemed that I had to talk about them; someone had to know. Then, I had my moment, and none of it mattered any more. I was "square" with my Heavenly Father, and I was even able to see the humor in some of my more embarrassing moments, and actually laugh about them.
For those of you who want to hang onto your denials of man's "divine nature," I say knock yourself out, just allow me the opportunity to believe as I wish to believe. One of the reasons Christian converts try to go out and teach their friends is because we've held your beliefs, we know that there is nothing to hope for with those beliefs, we want you to know what life is like when hope is restored in your life.
Without hope, life is hard. Life is one dreary day after another. Is that what life is about? Not for me, anyway.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
On Hearing Disturbing News
On Monday, October 7, 2013, I heard my doctor speak the word that chills people's very souls, "cancer". On the positive side, it was said after the words "possible," and "early-stage. Still, the word was out there, on the table (so to speak), and it was done so well, by a doctor whom I truly respect.
His full title would be, LtCol David D. Gover, MD, Chief of Vascular and Interventional Radiology at David Grant Hospital on Travis AFB. To me, he's just "Dave," a friend, and a fellow congregate of Vacaville Second Ward. Dr. Dave is great, both as a doctor and a friend. We've watched his family grow, and we've worked together when I was part of the Bishopric, so our friendship began. He is the guy who introduced me to Epidural Steroid Injections (ESI), as a means of managing back pain. I remember it like it was yesterday, but it was almost seven years ago. Dave asked me, "What would you think if I told you I could relieve your back pain for 90 days?" I joked about kissing him on the mouth (which he declined anyway), and once I got through the Referrals process, I got my first ESI in February of 2007.
I've learned a lot about Dave, through the hospital grapevine, and it seems that everyone there loves him. I know his IR Staff cares a great deal for him, and speak nothing but great things about him. I found out that, for a time, I was one of his "favorite patients" because he could actually see the difference the ESI therapy has on me, whereas his general duties mostly involved people who were terminally ill. I, on the other hand, walked out better than I walked in, and it helped him keep things in balance. If that's so, I am one proud patient.
On this past Monday, Dave asked me if I would let him look at my CT/PET scans and he'd tell me what he sees; I'd have to be crazy to say "no". When he got done, he explained that one nodule on my left lung had changed, and that it didn't look good (the fact that the sentence stopped at that point didn't jar me). He said that they would probably want to biopsy it, and possibly wedge it out. Hearing this from a trusted friend was a really good thing for me. Because of our friendship, he knew the tone and words to use to get across some problematic ideas, and I left that appointment with the confidence to do whatever it takes.
Half an hour later, I'm meeting with a thoracic surgeon, who's trying to figure out how to get started. I tell him about my appointment with Dr. Dave, and he visibly relaxed. I parroted back what Dave had told me, and he nodded, and added, "We'll biopsy it on the spot, and if it is cancerous, we will remove the upper lobe of your left lung."
I have to admit, that one kind of got to me, and my next swallow was pretty dry, but I kept eye contact with the doc and said, "Then let's get it done."
So now I have an appointment on October 29th, to get it done. I'm OK, I think. I've never had an actual surgery, cataracts, but nothing they had to put me under for. Until now, that is.
His full title would be, LtCol David D. Gover, MD, Chief of Vascular and Interventional Radiology at David Grant Hospital on Travis AFB. To me, he's just "Dave," a friend, and a fellow congregate of Vacaville Second Ward. Dr. Dave is great, both as a doctor and a friend. We've watched his family grow, and we've worked together when I was part of the Bishopric, so our friendship began. He is the guy who introduced me to Epidural Steroid Injections (ESI), as a means of managing back pain. I remember it like it was yesterday, but it was almost seven years ago. Dave asked me, "What would you think if I told you I could relieve your back pain for 90 days?" I joked about kissing him on the mouth (which he declined anyway), and once I got through the Referrals process, I got my first ESI in February of 2007.
I've learned a lot about Dave, through the hospital grapevine, and it seems that everyone there loves him. I know his IR Staff cares a great deal for him, and speak nothing but great things about him. I found out that, for a time, I was one of his "favorite patients" because he could actually see the difference the ESI therapy has on me, whereas his general duties mostly involved people who were terminally ill. I, on the other hand, walked out better than I walked in, and it helped him keep things in balance. If that's so, I am one proud patient.
On this past Monday, Dave asked me if I would let him look at my CT/PET scans and he'd tell me what he sees; I'd have to be crazy to say "no". When he got done, he explained that one nodule on my left lung had changed, and that it didn't look good (the fact that the sentence stopped at that point didn't jar me). He said that they would probably want to biopsy it, and possibly wedge it out. Hearing this from a trusted friend was a really good thing for me. Because of our friendship, he knew the tone and words to use to get across some problematic ideas, and I left that appointment with the confidence to do whatever it takes.
Half an hour later, I'm meeting with a thoracic surgeon, who's trying to figure out how to get started. I tell him about my appointment with Dr. Dave, and he visibly relaxed. I parroted back what Dave had told me, and he nodded, and added, "We'll biopsy it on the spot, and if it is cancerous, we will remove the upper lobe of your left lung."
I have to admit, that one kind of got to me, and my next swallow was pretty dry, but I kept eye contact with the doc and said, "Then let's get it done."
So now I have an appointment on October 29th, to get it done. I'm OK, I think. I've never had an actual surgery, cataracts, but nothing they had to put me under for. Until now, that is.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
It's Official...
... I am now officially retired from the world of work, and getting paid for it. I was told that my monthly Social Security would be in on such-and-such a date, and it arrived on time, exactly as explained to me. I guess the previous six years were just me being a bum, but I had waited patiently. One hears so many horror stories from people about getting their first payment, it almost made me dread applying for my benefit.
What an easy way to apply, on-line, it took just a short time, particularly when the applicant has the recommended documents when beginning the application. I made one mistake, I neglected to mention an aborted application for disability, but that was the funniest thing about it. Because I did that, a woman called the very next morning after I filled out the on-line form. She asked about the other application, and I told her to disregard it, I thought I was saving it, not entering it, so it was really incomplete. She said it was OK, they just wanted to know if I wanted to complete it, and I said no.
She babbled on about a few things, and then told me that my first payment would be in my account on a certain day, of a certain amount, and did I want to take anything out before the money was sent to my account? She said she wouldn't have called, except the prior application thing, so maybe it was a good thing I made an error (I had to agree). She explained that what people don't realize is that Social Security is saving billions by not mailing things out. They used to mail an annual statement, but it was converted to a digital file, available on the web-site, several years ago. On behalf of a friend who does not have a computer, a smart phone, or a desire to have either one, I asked about those who don't have internet. She explained that one is available by calling an 800 number, and following the prompts to make the request. She also said that the internet was the best, and fastest way to apply.
She had me convinced.
What an easy way to apply, on-line, it took just a short time, particularly when the applicant has the recommended documents when beginning the application. I made one mistake, I neglected to mention an aborted application for disability, but that was the funniest thing about it. Because I did that, a woman called the very next morning after I filled out the on-line form. She asked about the other application, and I told her to disregard it, I thought I was saving it, not entering it, so it was really incomplete. She said it was OK, they just wanted to know if I wanted to complete it, and I said no.
She babbled on about a few things, and then told me that my first payment would be in my account on a certain day, of a certain amount, and did I want to take anything out before the money was sent to my account? She said she wouldn't have called, except the prior application thing, so maybe it was a good thing I made an error (I had to agree). She explained that what people don't realize is that Social Security is saving billions by not mailing things out. They used to mail an annual statement, but it was converted to a digital file, available on the web-site, several years ago. On behalf of a friend who does not have a computer, a smart phone, or a desire to have either one, I asked about those who don't have internet. She explained that one is available by calling an 800 number, and following the prompts to make the request. She also said that the internet was the best, and fastest way to apply.
She had me convinced.
Monday, September 9, 2013
It's Been Too Long...
An e-mail from my niece, Kelly, reminded me that I still have a blog, despite the lack of attention I've given it over the past eight months. I realized it was time to get back on the horse, and stop feeling lost because I was no longer in the intolerable situation that I faced for almost four years. I'm sorry to admit that the attention I gave to my mother (since my father passed in '09) was done entirely out of duty. At some point, very shortly after Dad passed, she changed, and it wasn't for the better.
Mom had a tendency to be hyper-critical, in case you've never really met her. She could (and would) go on and on about how "this" wasn't right, or "that" wasn't the way they did it in her day. When we were kids, our rooms were never clean unless she cleaned them, in which case we had to stand and watch her go through all of our stuff, and put it back her way, and her bitching up a storm about how we didn't appreciate things, blah-blah-blah-blah-blah, the whole time.
She'd buy our school clothes, and complain about how we wore them. It was worse than the Navy; at least in the Navy we only got inspected once a month, or so. With Mom it was anytime, anywhere, some times for no reason. Don't get me wrong, I love my Mom, but she made you work to get anything in return; the same with Dad. I'm convinced it's generational; their generation went through a very hard time, and arrived on the other side determined that that wouldn't happen to their kids.
She was FOR-EVER on my dad's case about getting fat. At his biggest, he packed about 230 on a 5'10" medium build. Yeah, he had a belly, but the inmates at CMF didn't mess with him for a number of reasons. Once, I put my hand through a piece of paneling in our family room, rather than smack her for a comment that got a little too personal, even for my mom. She gave me that, "Wait 'til your father gets home...", and let me stew on it. When he got home, she screamed at him, and he came out to meet me in the backyard.
He was furious, even for him. His nostrils were flaring, his face red. I stepped towards him, my hands outstretched, palms out, saying, "Wait a minute Da...". The next thing I knew, he was in the house, and Mom was outside bending over me saying, "...might have really hurt him." To this day, I have no idea of what he did, where it came from, or what it hit. When I literally "came to," everything hurt, and I was having trouble catching my breath. It was the first time he'd done anything physical to me in maybe five years.
Getting back to Mom, she would get on him to the very end, counting every calorie, and going on about how he had to take better care of himself "because of his diabetes". Seriously, towards the end, my dad expressed a death wish several times. It wasn't any thing serious; he wasn't contemplating suicide, he's ask why God wanted him to go on, hurting as much as he did, and her bitching at him constantly, crazier all the time.
Then it was my turn. I decided to stop looking for work, to look after my mother. To drive her to all of her doctor appointments, fitness classes, weekly hair-do's, and anything else she wanted. I started after Mary and I got back from our planned trip to Hawaii, my sister Pat stayed and helped out while we were gone. From that point on, I was on my own. She developed a very bad habit of not telling me about an appointment until five minutes after the appointment time. I HATE TO BE LATE! Ever since I was one minute late, and had to go all the way up the chain-of-command to the Executive Officer, before it got dismissed. All it was was a hassle. It took me off the day's work, which pissed off my friends and co-workers, and they were more than generous in sharing it all with me at the end of the day. I HATE TO BE LATE!
She didn't care. She had a routine, and a bad habit of spacing-out until I got there, 30 minutes before an appointment in Fairfield. The routine never varied, but it took longer and longer to do with each iteration. I tried everything, calling 20 minutes before, and telling her to get started; when I got there, she was still on the couch, still holding the phone in her hand. What scared me is I think I came up with a reasonable defense for elder abuse (as there is no "sarcasm" font, I'll defend myself here). What hurts is that there's a bit of truth in that, too.
Sometime between Dad's death, and their 70th wedding anniversary, my mom checked out. I don't know who this "new" person was, but she was not my mom. She was angry at first, and got angrier daily, until she snapped. I scheduled my life around her schedule, until I could get her to combine trips, I was going broke carting her around that first year. I don't know when it was, but we finally got to the point where she would fill my car every-other-week, on her credit card, which was almost fair. If I got the better of it, you can call it a below-minimum-wage salary. And still I could never do it right, no matter how hard I tried.
I hate to say it, but my health has improved since Mom passed. My back treatments last longer, I have a lot more energy, and I'm enjoying the heck out of my grandson. My parents, for all their faults, provided for their children fairly well in the end. I'd trade it all for a hug when I was eight, or nine.
Mom had a tendency to be hyper-critical, in case you've never really met her. She could (and would) go on and on about how "this" wasn't right, or "that" wasn't the way they did it in her day. When we were kids, our rooms were never clean unless she cleaned them, in which case we had to stand and watch her go through all of our stuff, and put it back her way, and her bitching up a storm about how we didn't appreciate things, blah-blah-blah-blah-blah, the whole time.
She'd buy our school clothes, and complain about how we wore them. It was worse than the Navy; at least in the Navy we only got inspected once a month, or so. With Mom it was anytime, anywhere, some times for no reason. Don't get me wrong, I love my Mom, but she made you work to get anything in return; the same with Dad. I'm convinced it's generational; their generation went through a very hard time, and arrived on the other side determined that that wouldn't happen to their kids.
She was FOR-EVER on my dad's case about getting fat. At his biggest, he packed about 230 on a 5'10" medium build. Yeah, he had a belly, but the inmates at CMF didn't mess with him for a number of reasons. Once, I put my hand through a piece of paneling in our family room, rather than smack her for a comment that got a little too personal, even for my mom. She gave me that, "Wait 'til your father gets home...", and let me stew on it. When he got home, she screamed at him, and he came out to meet me in the backyard.
He was furious, even for him. His nostrils were flaring, his face red. I stepped towards him, my hands outstretched, palms out, saying, "Wait a minute Da...". The next thing I knew, he was in the house, and Mom was outside bending over me saying, "...might have really hurt him." To this day, I have no idea of what he did, where it came from, or what it hit. When I literally "came to," everything hurt, and I was having trouble catching my breath. It was the first time he'd done anything physical to me in maybe five years.
Getting back to Mom, she would get on him to the very end, counting every calorie, and going on about how he had to take better care of himself "because of his diabetes". Seriously, towards the end, my dad expressed a death wish several times. It wasn't any thing serious; he wasn't contemplating suicide, he's ask why God wanted him to go on, hurting as much as he did, and her bitching at him constantly, crazier all the time.
Then it was my turn. I decided to stop looking for work, to look after my mother. To drive her to all of her doctor appointments, fitness classes, weekly hair-do's, and anything else she wanted. I started after Mary and I got back from our planned trip to Hawaii, my sister Pat stayed and helped out while we were gone. From that point on, I was on my own. She developed a very bad habit of not telling me about an appointment until five minutes after the appointment time. I HATE TO BE LATE! Ever since I was one minute late, and had to go all the way up the chain-of-command to the Executive Officer, before it got dismissed. All it was was a hassle. It took me off the day's work, which pissed off my friends and co-workers, and they were more than generous in sharing it all with me at the end of the day. I HATE TO BE LATE!
She didn't care. She had a routine, and a bad habit of spacing-out until I got there, 30 minutes before an appointment in Fairfield. The routine never varied, but it took longer and longer to do with each iteration. I tried everything, calling 20 minutes before, and telling her to get started; when I got there, she was still on the couch, still holding the phone in her hand. What scared me is I think I came up with a reasonable defense for elder abuse (as there is no "sarcasm" font, I'll defend myself here). What hurts is that there's a bit of truth in that, too.
Sometime between Dad's death, and their 70th wedding anniversary, my mom checked out. I don't know who this "new" person was, but she was not my mom. She was angry at first, and got angrier daily, until she snapped. I scheduled my life around her schedule, until I could get her to combine trips, I was going broke carting her around that first year. I don't know when it was, but we finally got to the point where she would fill my car every-other-week, on her credit card, which was almost fair. If I got the better of it, you can call it a below-minimum-wage salary. And still I could never do it right, no matter how hard I tried.
I hate to say it, but my health has improved since Mom passed. My back treatments last longer, I have a lot more energy, and I'm enjoying the heck out of my grandson. My parents, for all their faults, provided for their children fairly well in the end. I'd trade it all for a hug when I was eight, or nine.
Monday, April 15, 2013
It began as a "baseball weekend"...
I bought tickets for the Giant's home-opener on Friday, April 5th, as well as the game on Saturday. We had a reservation at the Downtown Courtyard (Marriott) for Friday night, and figured we could park the car and walk to-and-from the games. With the Opening Day-thing starting at about 10am on Friday (gametime was 1:30pm), we started calculating how early we'd have to leave to get to San Francisco, park the car, and walk about a mile to the stadium at, say, 11am. Figuring traffic, we'd have to leave before the end of "rush hour," and be caught up in all the delays that it causes, and it kept getting earlier, and earlier. On Tuesday, the 2nd, we thought, "Maybe we can get a room on Thursday night, too," and I went on-line to book it. There were no rooms at the inn. Undaunted, I thought I'd wait until Thursday morning, and try again. Sure enough, plenty of room, stay in the same room both nights; I made the reservation at 11am, and we checked in a little after 4pm.
Mary loves staying in "really nice" places, and considers Courtyards an acceptable place to stay. We were not disappointed by the San Francisco Downtown, either. It's a very nice hotel, in a perfect spot if you'd like to take in a weekend of Giant's baseball (there were a few Cardinal fans among the guests, but not very many). The walk is fairly easy, even for a "gimp" like me, and gives you a chance to locate the closest food and beverage places outside of the hotel. The hotel food is fairly over-priced (either that, or I'm just not used to SF prices), and is better than "coffee shop" food, although I'd prefer "coffee shop" food because it's more food, and less "presentation" (and, maybe, presumption). They had a Starbuck's attached to the lobby, but there were pretty long lines. The breakfast place was called Jasmine's Kitchen. An eggs-any-style buffet was $15, so the young Chinese woman and I got acquainted over at Starbucks (in case any of you missed it I'm a hopeless flirt, and my wife knows it).
Sounds like a great time, eh?
On Friday morning, at about 8am, I got a call from my daughter telling me my sister Pat had died, no details available. By 9am, I had talked to both my brother-in-law, and one of my nieces, as well as my other daughter. As the time approached to start walking to the ballpark, I was in a bit of a quandary. Should I go to the games, or pack-up and go home? I said a little prayer; I asked what I should do, and I got this image of my sister Pat, haranguing me for wasting my money. It was pretty life-like, I can assure you, but it gave me the ability to enjoy the weekend we had planned. Our hearts still went out to Jack, Danielle and her girls, and Kimberly; we both have lost Moms, but I wouldn't know what to say to Jack. I live in abject fear that I will lose Mary first. Both of our lives have been prolonged; we have a reason for being here; I just don't know what it is. I know what it's like to bury a child, but not a spouse. I cannot, for an instant, imagine the anguish of losing a spouse. They had been married for 47 years; Mary and I are at 39. I don't know that I could survive something like that.
We went on, of course, and had a great time. In honor of a sister who hated baseball, but hated losing money even more, we had a great time.
Mary loves staying in "really nice" places, and considers Courtyards an acceptable place to stay. We were not disappointed by the San Francisco Downtown, either. It's a very nice hotel, in a perfect spot if you'd like to take in a weekend of Giant's baseball (there were a few Cardinal fans among the guests, but not very many). The walk is fairly easy, even for a "gimp" like me, and gives you a chance to locate the closest food and beverage places outside of the hotel. The hotel food is fairly over-priced (either that, or I'm just not used to SF prices), and is better than "coffee shop" food, although I'd prefer "coffee shop" food because it's more food, and less "presentation" (and, maybe, presumption). They had a Starbuck's attached to the lobby, but there were pretty long lines. The breakfast place was called Jasmine's Kitchen. An eggs-any-style buffet was $15, so the young Chinese woman and I got acquainted over at Starbucks (in case any of you missed it I'm a hopeless flirt, and my wife knows it).
Sounds like a great time, eh?
On Friday morning, at about 8am, I got a call from my daughter telling me my sister Pat had died, no details available. By 9am, I had talked to both my brother-in-law, and one of my nieces, as well as my other daughter. As the time approached to start walking to the ballpark, I was in a bit of a quandary. Should I go to the games, or pack-up and go home? I said a little prayer; I asked what I should do, and I got this image of my sister Pat, haranguing me for wasting my money. It was pretty life-like, I can assure you, but it gave me the ability to enjoy the weekend we had planned. Our hearts still went out to Jack, Danielle and her girls, and Kimberly; we both have lost Moms, but I wouldn't know what to say to Jack. I live in abject fear that I will lose Mary first. Both of our lives have been prolonged; we have a reason for being here; I just don't know what it is. I know what it's like to bury a child, but not a spouse. I cannot, for an instant, imagine the anguish of losing a spouse. They had been married for 47 years; Mary and I are at 39. I don't know that I could survive something like that.
We went on, of course, and had a great time. In honor of a sister who hated baseball, but hated losing money even more, we had a great time.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Trying to End a Drought
I haven't written, let alone posted anything in a long while. I've written a couple of babbling idiocies, but nothing I'd be willing to share publicly. Not much of anything cohesive since December 30th, when my mom passed. She's screaming at me now, I know it, telling me to get off my ass and compose. She knew the therapeutic value of writing, though she apparently didn't do much of it herself. It could be that that's what drove her over the edge; an inability to excise her demons on paper. Perhaps she is warning me of the off-ramp to insanity that looms when one has no way to talk about stuff.
As much as I hate to say, I allowed my mother to stay isolated. For a long time, I would ask her about church, or going to the senior center, or just some way of getting out, every time I picked her up. After a couple of years, I'd only ask once a week; by the end it was rarely. I don't know what I could have done; she didn't want to do anything but exercise class, commissary, hair appointment. Tuesday, Wednsday, Thursday, the routine never varried, until I got the Wednsday's off when she quit going to exercise class. After that it was commissary every other Tuesday, and hair on Thursday, plus any of a hundred different appointments I'd find out about when I didn't show up to take her to an appointment she'd never told me about. OK, I'm rambling already, admittedly there are a few left-over guilt issues, but it was totally her choice.
You know there's trouble when Jackie wasn't talking. Dad used to say, "She could talk the paint off a fire plug if it would stay still long enough." Mom was a talker. That was her release. One never had a "short" phone call from her, nor can many recall a time when she wasn't yapping about something or another. I'm not "disrespecting" her, she was a talker. If you didn't know that, you never spent five minutes next to her in any number of lines, gatherings, etc. The woman talked. Until 2009, anyway. After Dad died, she chose to give into depression, and really lost her desire to live. It just took three years nine months for the darkness to swallow her.
See, that's grim. It's stuff they used to use on "Twilight Zone," or something. A tale that ends in a lonely death, made possible by the main character's choices, and we never see it coming. Never.
I've had a recent brush with "the dark side," a misunderstanding turned ugly, and I yearned for an easy way out. Fortunately, I am married to the most wonderful woman, who prayed for me, and listened when I said things that cut her deeply, but who stood by me, and helped get us together to fix a minor problem. I know when that dark-half is wrestling for control; I just have to find a thought, or a memory to grab onto, and pull myself out of the slime of self-pity. Some times it takes a while to find something, because I'm an idiot, because it always turns out to be one thing, one person. Some would like it if I said it was Jesus; others would prefer me to say Mary, but I'm here to tell you that one is the same as the other, because they both lead me to the same place.
No conversation about deity can happen with out me thinking of Mary, and vice versa. It's usually Mary that I grab onto. She's weathered enough of these storms to be a pro.
I have to write, or face losing my, oops, dang, *sound of marbles rolling off*, ummm, I'll have to, ummm, get back to you, OK?
As much as I hate to say, I allowed my mother to stay isolated. For a long time, I would ask her about church, or going to the senior center, or just some way of getting out, every time I picked her up. After a couple of years, I'd only ask once a week; by the end it was rarely. I don't know what I could have done; she didn't want to do anything but exercise class, commissary, hair appointment. Tuesday, Wednsday, Thursday, the routine never varried, until I got the Wednsday's off when she quit going to exercise class. After that it was commissary every other Tuesday, and hair on Thursday, plus any of a hundred different appointments I'd find out about when I didn't show up to take her to an appointment she'd never told me about. OK, I'm rambling already, admittedly there are a few left-over guilt issues, but it was totally her choice.
You know there's trouble when Jackie wasn't talking. Dad used to say, "She could talk the paint off a fire plug if it would stay still long enough." Mom was a talker. That was her release. One never had a "short" phone call from her, nor can many recall a time when she wasn't yapping about something or another. I'm not "disrespecting" her, she was a talker. If you didn't know that, you never spent five minutes next to her in any number of lines, gatherings, etc. The woman talked. Until 2009, anyway. After Dad died, she chose to give into depression, and really lost her desire to live. It just took three years nine months for the darkness to swallow her.
See, that's grim. It's stuff they used to use on "Twilight Zone," or something. A tale that ends in a lonely death, made possible by the main character's choices, and we never see it coming. Never.
I've had a recent brush with "the dark side," a misunderstanding turned ugly, and I yearned for an easy way out. Fortunately, I am married to the most wonderful woman, who prayed for me, and listened when I said things that cut her deeply, but who stood by me, and helped get us together to fix a minor problem. I know when that dark-half is wrestling for control; I just have to find a thought, or a memory to grab onto, and pull myself out of the slime of self-pity. Some times it takes a while to find something, because I'm an idiot, because it always turns out to be one thing, one person. Some would like it if I said it was Jesus; others would prefer me to say Mary, but I'm here to tell you that one is the same as the other, because they both lead me to the same place.
No conversation about deity can happen with out me thinking of Mary, and vice versa. It's usually Mary that I grab onto. She's weathered enough of these storms to be a pro.
I have to write, or face losing my, oops, dang, *sound of marbles rolling off*, ummm, I'll have to, ummm, get back to you, OK?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)